The  BLUE  CRANE 
and  Shore  Songs 

Ihj  -  •  i  VAN  SWIFT 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THOR  LILJENCRANTZ 


TfiK  CA^TLJJ 


.Lruj  W-* 

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THE    BLUE    CRANE 
and  SHORE  SONGS 


THE  BLUE  CRANE 

and  SHORE   SONGS 


By 

IVAN    SWIFT 

Author  of  '  'Fagots  of  Cedar'1 ' 


NEW    YORK    CITY 

JAMES    T.    WHITE    &    COMPANY 

1918 


For  the  privilege  of  printing  these  verses 
in  book  form  acknowledgment  is  due 
The  Independent,  The  Outlook,  The 
Smart  Set,  Recreation,  Field  and 
Stream,  The  Midland,  American  Lum- 
berman, Boston  Transcript  and  Chicago 
American,  also  to  Fagots  of  Cedar  by 
the  author  of  this  volume. 


COPYRIGHTED     1818     BY 
JAMBS    T.    WHITE    ft    CO 


DEDICATED   TO   THE   HOSPITALITY   OP  OUR  CITY 

HOMES— SIGNIFICANT  TO  DWELLERS  IN  A  PLACE 

OF  SHORE  SONGS. 


CONTENTS 

BLUE  CRANE        .        .        .        .        .        .        .       .  n 

HOME    .        .        ...        .**..*-*...  14 

ALONG  THE  HARBOR  SHORE        .       .       »       .       .  15 

To  A  GROSBEAK  IN  THE  GARDEN      .        .        .        .  16 

THE  HUMMING  BIRD          .        .        .        .        »        »•'    ••  17 

IF  I  WERE  PAN          .        ,       .        .        .        .       .  i» 

VENICE         ..        .        .      ,.        .      ..  :      .  '     .        ,  19* 

ASSOCIATION          .        .        .....        .        .  20 

BUT  WHERE  THY  PORT      .        ...        *        .  22 

THE   NURSE          .        .        .       „  '      .        .        .        .  24 

A  VISION  OF  SLEEP      .        .        ....        .        .  26 

THE  GIFTS  OF  THE  SHIPS  ......  28 

SEAL  OF  THE  NORTH     .        .        .    /.        .        .        .  29 

I  WOULD  NOT  BRING  You  TEARS      .        .        .        »  30 

THEN  SHOULD  You  KNOW          *        .        ,  *      *        .  32 

I  CANNOT  COURT  YOUR  FICKLE  SPRING    .        .        .  33 

COULD  I   LOVE   ANOTHER  You?        ....  34 


CONTENTS—  ( Continued) 

I'LL  LIFT  MY  HEAD  A  KING.           ....  36 

THE   SAVING        . 37 

OUTSIDE  THE  GATE      . 38 

THE  POET'S  SHIFT 39 

THE  ODALISK       .        * 40 

GATES  OF  BRASS          .       ....        .        .        .  42 

MY  TAPER'S  RECOMPENSE 44 

THE    INVENTOR 45 

THE  PEASANT'S  PRAYER 46 

THE  POET  VAGRANT 48 

JAPAN  THE  BEAUTAFUL 49 

MY  BIRTHDAY .50 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WINDS          .        .     ,  .        .        .  52 

LOUISIANA .  54 

THE  DRAGON  CITY      .        .        .       •               «        .  56 

A  SWALLOW  ON  THE  TELEGRAPH  WIRE    .        .        .  58 

IN  MICHIGAN       .                .        .        .        .        .        .  59 

THE  SANDPIPER    .        .        .       ...       .        .  60 

THE  WAR   GARDENS   .        ^       .        .        »        .        .  62 

To  A  SEA-GULL                                 *•;:      *    -  ..- '  ,  .  63 


THE    BLUE    CRANE 
and  SHORE  SONGS 


In  the  half-light  of  my  hearth  fire 

I  look  up  through  my  dormer  to  the  night — 

And  see  the  balsam  rafters  of  my  loft  reflected, 

Like  a  firm  structure  for  the  frail  sky  / 

And  I  see,  this  side  of  them,  the  stars — 

The  Big  Bear  and  the  Pole-star, 

Swung  like  little  lanterns  from  my  rafters. 

That  house  is  not  too  small,  1  think,  nor  ill-conceived 
That  shelters  him  who  built  it  and  roofs  in 
A  few  stars  like  the  Pleiades. 


THE    BLUE    CRANE 

ACROSS  nine  miles  of  calm  water — 
Water  yet  stained  by  the  bleeding  hoofs 
Of  the  hour-gone  sun — 
Skillagalee  Light  burns  like  a  spot-welder 
Riveting  a  purple  island  to  the  rim  of  the  world. 
From  my  heavy   Dutch-door  pane, 
When  my  back  is  to  the  candles  and  the  green  globe 
Of  my  orbit-lamp,  I  can  make  out  the  little  eye 
Shining  like  a  moored  star — 
Warning  from  my  coast 
All  but  mariners  gone  mad. 

Two  tallow  dips  are  on  my  mantel, 

Serving  their  little  utmost  to  my  fathers 

Who  command  me  to  save  this  landmark. 

How  much  larger  is  the  light  of  Skillagalee, 

Ruilded  by  engineers  of  the  new  time! 

Yet  the  candles  are  at  hand  and  of  more  comfort, 

As  the  moths  testify — 

Though  my  shrine  is  often  their  burial-place. 


11 


This   house,  now  in   the  making,   is   of   old   timber 

from  the  beaches, 

Old-weather  with  green  hangings  and  a  Navajo 
And  symbols  of  eternal  things — 
No  longer  reckoned  so. 

It  is  a  quiet  place  full  of  eloquent  whispers 
In  summer,  and  cedar  trees  perfume  the  lofts. 
The  white  birch  stands  a  trim  sentry 
Against  the  boulder  patterns, 
And  a  blue  crane  is  at  peace  with  the  night, 
On  the  furthermost  rock  along  shore. 

After  my  years  of  unquietness 

This  house  is  as  a  candle  in  the  dark; 

But   it   seems   a   burial-place    of   something   I    have 

known, 

Or  something  that  has  been  a  part  of  me  in  cities, 
Or  something  I  have  sensed  among  romping  children 
And  the  reminiscences  of  kinsfolk 
Who  pass  time  in  homely  converse. 

I  have  prepared  my  house  to  my  liking, 
And  it  lights  a  corner  of  the  wilderness; 
But  moth-men  find  this  a  burial-place 
Of  a  life  to  their  liking, 

And   seek   the   larger   light   on   the   runway   of  the 
loud  ships — 

12 


The  light  that  shines  like  Skillagalee 
Across  the  bleeding  foot-prints  of  the  sun. 

At  times  I  seem  the  blue  crane 

On  the  furthermost  rock; 

Yet  the  spirits  of  my  fathers 

Have  aided  in  the  laying  of  these  stones 

And  the  framing  of  these  rafters, 

And  the  Indians  upon  whose  graves  its  corners  are 

builded 

Have  signed  these  plans 
And  are  my  silent  and  wise  company. 

Let  me  be  the  man,  on  the  rough  coast, 

My  house  of  seasoned  timber; 

Though  I  seem  at  times  like  the  blue  crane 

On  the  furthermost  rock. 

Somewhere,  on  other  shores,  in  peace  with  night, 

Are  my  fellows,  content  with  little  candles 

In  quietness,  keeping  the  landmarks — 

Content  with  a  strong  house  of  clean  faith 

And  removed  from  the  light  of  Skillagalee 

Nine  miles  across  the  water. 


13 


HOME 

IN  the  evening  after  the  rain, 
At  home  with  the  North  and  the  trees, 
I  turn  from  the  world  again 

And  find  me  a  world  in  these. 

I  searched  for  a  joy  in  the  lands 
Of  castle  and  kopje  and  sun, 

And  found  what  I  sought — in  the  sands 

Where   the   journey   was   lightly   begun. 

The  glories  of  continents  seen 

And  all  that  my  ears  have  heard, 

Are  lost  in  a  garden's  green 

And  the  chirp  of  a  nested  bird. 


ALONG  THE  HARBOR  SHORE 

I   LIKE  the  days  of  northern   Spring 
When  leaves  emerge  the  bud, 
The  birches  turn  a  tender  green 
And  maple-blossoms  blood. 

A    sail   is  golden   in   the   sun, 

Against  the  purple  hill; 
A  gull  is  high  on  silent  wing, 

The  swallows  never  still. 

Where  westing  sun  and  fog  are  met, 

Along  the   harbor-shore, 
An  aged  fisher  reels  a  net 

And  mutters  primal  lore. 

He  is  not  of  the  Spring  of  life, 

Yet  find  we  equal  cheer; — 
He,   that    the    old    ship   weathered    through, 

I,  that  the  new  may  clear. 


15 


TO   A    GROSBEAK    IN   THE    GARDEN 

WHEN   through   the   heaviness   and    clamouring 
throng 

Of  mortal  ways  I  hear  the  mellow  song 
Of  birds,  the  birds  seem  sent  to  me. 
If  this  be  my  insanity, 
As  men  will  measure  it — so  let  it  be! 

When  shadows  that  no  will  can  drive  away 
Entomb  me — then  no  sermon  blesseth  day, 
More  true  and  sweet  than  that  pure  note 
My  ear  hath  caught  afloat, 
Aflame  from  the  rose-breast's  fervent  throat. 

Thou,  crimson-caped  messenger  of  God, 
Seem'st  not  to  feel  the  thorned  and  bruising  rod 
Of  Life — thy  hours  are  joyously  beguiled 
With  melody  so  mild, 

So  wild! — as  winds  in  the  heart  of  some  slip-trammel 
child! 

Full  knowing  that  thy  living  days  are  brief 
Thou  grudgest  even  a  breath  for  sober  grief; 
Thy  poems  are  scattered  free,  without  a  name, 
Nor  hast  thou  thought  of  fame — 
Neither  from  the  eagle  taken  shame! 
Is  my  unpaid  aspiring  yet  my  blame? 

16 


The  world  is  wide  'twixt  man  and  worlds  divine, 
And  hearts  are  dull  to  such  a  song  as  thine; 
But  /  have  heard.     Sing  on,  from  tree  to  tree, 
As  thou  hast  sung  to  me — 
And  more  shall  find  the  God  that  guideth  thee! 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD 

WHEN    languorous   noons   entreat    the   summer 
sky, 

And  restive  spirits  vex  the  ways  of  men 
In  vain  emprise;  within  my  garden  then 
Will  I  elect  to  let  the  world  go  by, 
And  watch  the  humming-bird.     Not  seen  to  fly, 
He  comes  and  vanishes  and  comes  again 
And  sips  the  sweets  of  honeysuckles  when 
Their    lips    are    frail — but    leaves    them    not    to    die. 

So  I  have  thought  how  good  it  were  to  be 
This  ruthful  corsair,  bent  on  such  pursuit, 

Against   the   wear   of  my   foreplanning  hours; — 
How  good  it  were  to  live  thus  liegelessly 

Upon  the  world's  unreckoned  blossom-loot — 
Yet  spare  from  any  harm  its  guarded  flowers! 


17 


IF    I    WERE    PAN 

DEEP  in  the  wood  across  the  way, 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  Pan  today, 
And  tuned  me  joyous  pipes  to  play. 
The  fronds  came  out  to  me, 
The  nymphs  and  graces  three — 
The  world  was  Arcady! 
For  I  was  Pan  and  this  was  Spring! 

I  played  the  part  of  Pan  today 

And  laughed  at  mortals  on  the  way, 

But  no  man  heard  and  none  would  stay. 

Their  ears  were  sorely  dull, 

And  sad  their  eyes  and  full 

Of  pelf  and  pride  and  mull; — 

And  spring  to  them  is  never  Spring! 

I  know  that  I  was  Pan  a  day, 

But  would  that  I  were  Pan  alway, 

With  ears  like  his  and  eyes  of  May, 

To  hear  and  feel  and  see! — 

Pipe  tunes  to  bird  and  bee 

And  set  the  world's  heart  free 

With  laughter,  love  and  light  of  Spring! 

I  would  if  I  were  Pan. 


18 


VENICE 

IT  has  been  mine  to  know,  in  younger  days, 
That  love,  in  fullness,  finds  no  utterance; 
No  mortal  word  can  serve,  much  less  enhance 
A  perfect  thing.     The  wondrous  Nippon  vase 
Desponds  my  tongue;  the  while  to  ruder  clays 
Of  dull  unpromising  the  Muses  dance 
And  wake  with  hearts  of  wild  exuberance! 
So  Fancy  weaves  on  umber  warp  her  praise. 

No  song  of  mine  confirms  that  I  have  seen 
San  Marco's  opal  dome  and  wept  before 
The  Campanile's  fall.     I  have  not  sung 
Ca  d'Oro's  grace  nor  of  the  light  serene 
That  never  was  on  other  seas,   Maggior 
Venezia! — to  me  thy  bells  have  rung. 


19 


ASSOCIATION 

BEYOND  the  shore-guard  pines  the  beach  of  sand 
Stretched  off  as  warm  and  yielding  as  your  hand 
That  northern   summers  past  had  laid  in  mine. 
And  yet  the  place  had  set  no  moving  sign 
Within  my  heart — too  full  of  you  for  words, 
Too   glad   for   tears,   too   wrapt   to   hear   the   chords 
Of  Nature's  playing.     So  I  said  no  spell 
Attached  to  this  of  import  to  compel 
My  song;  though  we  had  lived  a  thousand  days 
And  grown  to  comradship  and  mutual  ways 
Within  its  keeping.     Thus  when  love  was  young 
And  you  were  by  my  side  no  song  was  sung. 
In  joy  and  fulsome  praise  I  had  not  thought 
Upon   the   frequent   scene — I   had   not   caught 
Its  inward  meaning,  as  when  oft  alone 
I   found   some  mystic   message  in  a   stone. 
The  silent  shade  and  your  sweet  gladness — 
These  were  enough.     Somehow  the  poet-madness 
Comes  not  of  soft  content  and  troths  unbroken, 
And  of  such  perfect  peace  no  words  are  spoken. 

Today  I  am  alone,  for  my  offense — 
Alone  and  penitent  and  wondering  whence 
This  golden  light  and  gold-green  of  the  lake, 
The  waves1*  dull  symphony  and  dunes  awake 
With  laughing  spirits  of  the  happy  dead 

20 


Whose  cast-off  pains  our  birth  inherited. 

The  dancing  trees  lean  down  with  precious  gifts 

Of  perfume,  every  tiny  plant  uplifts 

Its  tendrils  to  my  touch  and  points  to  skies 

Of  essent  opal  where  the  free  gull  flies 

To  meet  his  mate  beyond  some  blessed  isle. 

Would  I,  as  he,  to  mine  might  fly  the  while, 
Or  she  to  me — yea,  thou  to  me,  and  here, 
Where  days  that  are  departed  are  twice  dear 
And  every  leaf  and  twig  bears  memories 
Like  faint,  far  bells  across  the  midnight  seas! 

Alone  I  wait  I  know  not  what  strange  word; 
Alone   I   pray   I  know  not  what  vague  sign! 
But  where  we  met  and  your  sweet  voice  was  heard 
Has  been  God's  temple — and  shall  be  my  shrine! 


BUT    WHERE   THY    PORT? 


E  bay  is  white  with  sail 
-»•     Uncertain  bound  — 
Vain  ships  that  seek  no  grail, 
Proud  ships  that  bear  no  bale, 
And  ships  aground. 

Like  moths  they  dot  the  day, 
Nor  heed  the  chart; 
At  dusk  they  pale  away, 
Unlit  in  the  evening  gray, 
And  so  depart. 

O,  ships  of  changing  hue 

And  shallow  court, 

Ye  wing  across  the  blue 

And   swing  the   season   through 

But  where  thy  port? 

I  wait  here  on  the  shore 
To  sail,  afar, 
The  wider  sea  that  bore 
And  bears  for  evermore 
The  steadfast  star. 

And  soon,  I  pray,  shall  come, 
As  comes  the  Dawn, 

22 


With  muffled  oar  and  drum, 
Unfaltering  and  by  some 
Sea-mystery  drawn — 

The  ship  that  sails  from  where 
The  autumn  moon 
Hath  sailed;  and  I  shall  fare 
With  her — my  heart's  corsair, 
To  ports  of  Noon! 


23 


THE    NURSE 

I  KNEW  a  maid  of  Devon  Town 
Who  wore  upon  her  sleeve 
A  red,  red  cross  to  which  a  crown 
Were  scarce  a  make-believe. 

White  was  her  cap,  as  early  snow, 

Upon  her  auburn  hair; 
And  Devon's  dreaming  gardens  know 

The  grace  their  daughters  wear. 

Her  voice  was  like  a  camel-bell 
Across  the  wastes  of  Dawn; 

Her  liquid  eyes  a  fabled  well — 
Of  all  delusion  drawn. 

She  stepped  as  lightly  as  the  hern 
That  guards  a  tender  brood; 

And  such  a  heart! — it  seemed  to  burn, 
A  torch  of  angelhood. 

Her  brow  was  as  a  marble  thing; 

Her  breasts  alone  as  fair — 
And  Martha's  kin  are  wondering 

No  child  was  mothered  there. 


24 


But  who  can  know  the  mother-loss 
And  pangs  of  birth  she  bore? — 

Who  reckons  not  the  red,  red  cross 
That  on  her  sleeve  she  wore! 

A  thousand  brides  of  broken  weft 

Have  shared  their  grief  with  her; 
A  thousand  dying  men  had  left 
Their  love  as  lief  with  her. 

And  all  the  loves  of  all  the  men 
Who  die  across  the  sea — 

Will  meet  again  and  greet  her  when 
She  homes  her  heart  with  me! 


25 


A    VISION    OF    SLEEP 
(Tone  Picture) 

I  WALKED  in  a  verdureless  park 
The  morn  of  a  night  of  cold  rain. 
The  sky  was  a  desolate  gray 
As  sadly  I  stood  by  the  way, 
Beset  of  unnameable  pain 
From  the  past  and  the  oncoming  dark. 

Then  magical  came  through  the  wet 

A  silvery  car  and  more  slow 

And  silent  than  seraphim  feet 

So  led  by  a  spirit  to  meet 

The  soul  of  the  humble  below, 

As  a  queen  and  a  vagrant  have  met. 

Your  wonderful  face  and  a  veil, 
Your  delicate  hand  at  the  gear, 
And  gowned  as  the  Dawn  as  a  bride — 
You  seemed  but  to  be  and  to  glide 
Like  a  wraith  in  the  mist  of  the  year — 
So  silent  and  searching  and  pale. 

You  seemed  not  to  see  or  to  know 
My  presence  nor  answer  my  call, 
But  you  paused  for  the  touch  of  a  tear 
And  turned  half  away  as  to  hear 

26 


A  voice  from  the  place  of  the  fall 
Of  the  race  in  the  longer  ago. 

You  saw  not  and  heard  not  but  knew 

That  the  soul  that  your  soul  sought  was  near; 

You  spoke  not  nor  smiled  but  were  glad. 

I  woke  not,  to  know  I  was  sad, 

Till  a  bird-note  came  tenderly  clear 

And  into  the  dawn  you  withdrew. 


THE    GIFT    OF    THE    SHIPS 

RESTIVE  and  unconquered  are  the  little  seas 
That  Holland  from  her  green  bowl  fills 
With  wine  of  tulips.     In  the  everlasting  breeze 
A  hundred  lug-sails  whip  a  challenge  to  the  whirring 
mills. 

Sweet  and  real  and  glad  is  every  day 

To  its  good  people — all  as  ruddy  as  the  clover 

Knee-deep  to  the  mottled  cows,  and  gay 

As  the  swift  cloud  that  sweeps  cool  shadows  over. 

I  have  not  understood  what  vague  unrest 
Misleads  so  blessed  a  folk  to  our  unhappy  shore; 
But  I  must  think,  as  always,  God  plans  best — 
For  you  and  I  have  met  and  ask  no  more. 

I   ask   no   more,   for   that   long-cherished   and   most 

dear — 

The  lovliness  of  hyacinths,   is  in  your  hair! 
You  ask  no  more — has  not  your  ancient  prayer 
To  be  a  queen  been  answered  when   I   crown  you 

here? 

To  a  Nftu  Amsterdam  Maid. 


SEAL    OF    THE    NORTH 

AGES  ago  when  the  Dawn  first  lifted, 
Audrey,  you  lay  in  the  far  lake-land — 
Lnder  the  pines  where  the  sands  were  sifted, 
And  touched  my  untouched  hand. 

Your  hair  was  there  as  the  beach-grass  blowing; 
Your  eyes — and  the  sea-wet  stones  were  those; 
Your  flesh  was  one  with  the  soft  surf  flowing, 
Your  blush  with  the  frail  wild-rose. 

Your  blood  was  drained  from  the  sun's  red  setting 
Your  grace  from  the  virgin-white  birch  tree; 
You  breathe  with  the  pure,   cool   breeze  begetting 
The  Spring's  young  ecstasy! 

Your  lyric  laugh  and  the  tears,  all  tender, 
Keep  to  the  deeps  of  a  nature-heart 
Long  reft  in  the  snow-land's  still  cold  splendor — 
You  in  the  moons  apart. 


29 


I    WOULD    NOT    BRING   YOU   TEARS 

WHEN  Nature  grieves 
In  some  unwonted  pain, 
And  feels  her  leaves 
Droop  under  blighting  stain, 
Her  kindly  curtain  falls 
Against  our  view, 
And  lone  in  her  gray  walls 
She  broods  the  dark  day  through. 

Bereft  of  joys 

The  painter  takes  her  mood — 

His  brush  employs, 

Upon  a  solemn  wood 

At  dusk,  the  sombre  hue. 

When  glad  and  young 

He  paints  the  morning  dew 

And  skies  where  larks  have  sung. 

So  bear  with  me 

If  I  seem  far  today. 

May  it  not  be 

That  well  am  I  away? 

My  canvas  tells  the  pain 

Of  loss  and  fears — 

My  hour  is  cold,  gray  rain. 

I  would  not  bring  you  tears. 

30 


You  knew  me,  dear, 

When  Fortune  played  me  fair; 

Then  was  I  near 

And  gladness  kissed  your  hair. 

So  might  I  come  again — 

When  golden  light 

Conies  through  the  cold,  gray  rain, 

And  morn  comes  through  the  night. 


31 


THEN    SHOULD    YOU    KNOW 

ON  shores  beneath  the  green  flare  of  the  north. 
For  weary  days  the  elements  have  crossed 
The  peaceful  seasons  and  the  low  skies  tossed 
With  melancholy  gray.     It  seemed  henceforth 
There  could  be  no  more  sun  nor  laughing  flowers, 
No  golden  morn  and  no  glad  birds  afield. 
Such  time  man's  faith  is  frail  and  strong  hearts  yield 
The  truce  of  hope  against  the  sullen  powers. 

If  so  the  light  of  day  should  no  more  shine 

Upon  green  islands  and  the  purple  sea, 

And  moon  and  stars  should  fail  and  cease  to  be, 

Even  as  candles  spent  in  some  dark  mine — 

Then  should  you  know  the  deeps  of  my  despair, 

The  Hagar  heart  and  thirst  uncomforted, 

When  we  have  quarreled — the  fault  upon  my  head — 

And  alien  lovers  stroke  your  weeping  hair. 

If  you  could  be  some  sad-souled  Eskimo, 
Pent  in  his  lodge  of  ice  through  endless  years 
Of  starless  night,  when  quick  upon  his  spears 
The  flowering  noon   should  break — then  you  would 

know 

How  sweet  is  your  returning  grace  to  me, 
How  holier  than  heaven  your  guileless  eyes 
And  grateful  your  forgiveness!     So  replies 
God  to  the  lovelorn  in   Eternity. 

32 


I    CANNOT    COURT   YOUR    FICKLE   SPRING 

I  MAY  not  stay  in  this  roof-place, 
And  yet  I  would. 

Your  Spring,  is  teasing  to  embrace 
My   solitude, 

And  like  to  win.     The  memory  of  her  grace 
Is  light  upon  dark  ways 

And  fills  a  little  room  with  singing  gladness 
When  worlds  abroad  are   dumb   in  winter  sadness. 

Yet  I   must  doubt  I   could  be  true — 

And  yield  to  follow. 

My  heart's  own  Spring  I  still  pursue 

And  its  wild  swallow. 

I  cannot  court  your  fickle  Spring,  now  due 

On  lanes  of  hill  and  hollow: — 

Her  carpetings  of  moss  and  yellow  flowers 

But  lead  to  summer  heat  and  slothful  hours. 

No,  lock  me  in  these  narrow  walls  and  leave — 
I  yet  could  sing. 
A  lovely  little  maid  of  Kiev 
Hath  been  my  Spring! 
Your  winter  scarce  intended  to  forebring 
The  gift  of  days  I  grieve 
To  part  from,  but  only  summer  sadness 
Attends    your    briefer    Spring — to    vex    my    year   of 
gladness. 

33 


COULD  I  LOVE  ANOTHER  YOU? 

MY  Love  hath  locks  of  hazel  hair 
And  eyes  of  tender  blue; 
She's  little,  lithe  and  debonair 

And  wears  a  tiny  shoe. 
O  Curly  Locks,  of  lovely  hair 

And  laughing  tear  as  clear  as  dew! 
O  Cherry  Lips  and  Bonny  Fair — 

I  wish  you  would  be  true! 
But  could   I  love  another  You 

As  once  I  loved  the  You  I  knew — 
The  truant  eye  and  taunting  air, 

The  elfish  laugh  and  lips  of  rue? 


My  Love  hath  banks  of  beauty-locks 

And  ears  of  rose-of-dawn; 
Her  tongue's  a  hundred  silver  clocks, 

Her  movements  like  the  fawn. 
She  makes  and  mends  her  tiny  frocks 

Of  wool  and  dainty  lawn, 
And  feeds  her  father's  hungry  flocks 

And  sings  at  early  morn. 
O,  would  I  had  not  lingered  on 

Her  wistful  waiting  at  the  docks! 
But  lassies  and  a  laughing  Faun 

Are  lithe  as  love  and  lightly  gone! 

34 


All  day  my  Love's  a  busy  bee, 

At  dawn  a  lark,  a  flower  at  noon; 
At  eve  a  drooping  willow  tree 

And  sleeping  moth-of-moon. 
I  weave  my  tributes  into  tune, 

But  sigh  in  secrecy — 
The  lily  and  the  clair-de-lune 

Are  fair  but  ever  faded  soon 
And  never  true  to  me! 

The  morn  hath  passed;  and  now  the  noon 
The  night  will  be  a  thankless  boon — 

But  sweet  is  Memory! 


35 


I'LL    LIFT    MY    HEAD    A    KING 

THY  people's  veins  have  known  a  royal  blood — 
Kosciuszko  and  great  lovers  of  high  deeds, 
Dawn    singing,    nightly    toasts    to    grief,    prayer 

beads 

To  Liberty.     Chopin  hath  understood, 
And  kin  was  that  proud  princess  who   had   wooed 
To  Poland  victories  the  war-spent  breeds 
Of  Bonaparte — and  mourned  the  broken  reeds 
Of  his  weak  pledge  to  lesser  womanhood. 

When  battle  fields  deprive  me  of  my  games 
Of  hazzard  and  old  aspirations  lie 

Heaped  on  the  rocks  of  some  far  St.  Helene — 
I'll  lift  my  head  a  king,  who  then  reclaims 
His  holier  legions,  and  to  foes  reply: — 
Reap  dust!     A  throne  will  stand  where  Love  hath 
been! 


36 


THE   SAVING 

THE  rose  that  bloomed  but  yesterday 
And  gathered  to  its  lips  the  dews 
Of  heaven,  is  strewn  upon  the  way 
That  men  profane  and  storms  abuse. 

Its  heart  and  yours  cannot  but  choose 
The  blight  the  evil  seasons  set; 
And  as  their  gladness  gardens  lose, 
Your  tender  cheeks  with  tears  are  wet. 

Mayhap  the  flowers  fade  with  pain 
And  fall  from  vine  and  life  alike; 
But  come  the  Spring  and  deeper  rain 
To  quicken  grief  and  withered  spike. 

The  winds  that  burn  across  the  heart 
Are  keen  but  kinder  than  we  know — 
They  rend  the  bloom  and  branch  apart, 
But  seeds  to  farther  sands  will  blow. 

The  vainer  symbols  come  and  go, 
But  nobler  gifts  shall  vie  with  chance; 
A  lonely  soul  in  faith  may  grow 
And  Love  outlive  earth's  circumstance. 


37 


OUTSIDE    THE    GATE 

AGAIN  this  hour,  this  memorable  hour  when  you, 
Half-faltering,  pleaded  on  bended  knees  and  knew 
My  mercy  frail — this  hour  again  did  God  instate 
His  angels  and  their  swords  across  the  Eastern  Gate, 
For  that  I  broke  a  woman's  heart  and  closed  the  door 
Against  her  bleeding.     Beaten,  penitent  and  poor 
I  went  into  the  outer  dark  and  fell  in  prayer 
To  turn  again  and  kiss,  more  holily,  your  hair — 
Kiss  but  your  unresponsive  hair  and  weep 
My  wretchedness  upon  Love's  grave.     So  beg  you 

keep, 

Though  I  come  not  again,  throw  not  away 
The  treasured  rose-leaves  of  that  older  day 
When  hope  and  youth  gave  their  elusive  sign 
That    soon  —  ah,    futile    pledge!  —  thou   shouldst   be 

mine. 

I  cry  the  sad,  unanswered  cry  of  Cain,  and  yet, 
May  I  not  know,  O  woman  pitiful,  that  wet 
With  thy  forgiving  tears  is  that  same  fallen  hair 
I  prayed  of  God  to  kiss  in  my  despair? 


38 


THE    POET'S    SHIFT 

T  SAW  them  there  behind  the  glass — 

Red  rose,  sweet-pea  and  violet, 
Lily  and  pink  and  mignonette — 
Persuading  me;  but  I  must  pass. 

What  would  she  give  if  she  could  know 
It  hurt  my  heart  to  pass  them  so? — 
When  she  loves  rose  and  mignonette 
And  dotes  upon  the  violet! 

What  would  I  give  if  these  could  grow 
Along  the  wayside  as  I  pass! — 
And  not  behind  a  window-glass 
For  profiting  or  idle  shpw! 

But  summer  comes  and  some  day  yet 
We'll  gather  worlds  of  mignonette, 
Where  flowers  are  free  and  summers  long! 
Till  then  my  love  must  live  in  song! 


39 


THE    ODALISK 

OFT'TIMES  in  these  our  passion-resting  hours, 
When  the  light-mist  of  early  twilight 
Veils  the  spectral  mosque-tips, 
And  all  the  silver  bells  in  still  suspense 
Await  the  towered  muezzin's  call 
To  prayer — the   soft   dew-gathering  time 
When  rose-perfumes  from  our  seraglio*  garden 
Float  low  and  deep  upon  my  idle  sense — 
Then  have  I  dreamed  a  dream, 
Though  it  be  all  a  fancy-fabric, 
Makes  for  peace  to  you  and  me,  Fatima. 

I   have  dreamed  of  other  times  and  lands, 

Of  far-called  women  freely  born — 

Free  to  choose  and  free  of  any  master 

And   of   Moslem  power — all   save    Christian   creeds. 

In  these,  my  reveries,  the  winds 

From  over  seas  will  bear  the  sobs 

Of  childless  wives,  and  then  the  cries 

Of  many  children  left  of  mothers 

Weeping  for  the  fathers  strange! 

I  hear  of  marriage-beds  of  brides  unloved 

And  maidens  solitary  all  their  days 

In  pining  for  some  heart  they  move  not; 

And  it  has  come  to  me — ah,  truly  false — 

That  those  most  virtuous  are  most  bereft, 

40 


Without  abode  or  any  resting  place 

Or  sympathy's  caress  to  bless  their  sleep — 

And  this  because  of  goodness  and  the  hope 

Of  some  out-lying,  loveless  Paradise  to  come! 

So,  I  am  told  that  in  that  country  ruled 

Without  a  king,  the  ways  of  freedom 

Are  not  free,  and  woman's  liberty 

Is  woman's  reigning  woe. 

Her  fickle  fury  toys  unsavingly, 

And,  being  free,  men  turn  unscathed 

Away,  weary  of  play,  to  be  the  masters 

Men  can  be!     And  woman — 

Worn  of  trifling,  stale  of  beauty — lies 

Remembered  in  her  obloquy,  or,  worse,  forgot !- 

A  slave  abject  to  self-invented  custom! 

And  you  and  I,  Fatima — we  would  not, 

From  our  sweet  certainty  and  guardian  walls, 

Go  in  those  ways  of  freedom-woe 

An  hour's  apart — but  we  should  rend 

Our  matted  hair,  to  be  forgiven  our  dalliance, 

And  would  turn  our  troubled  faces  back 

To  him,  the  Radiant  One,  our  master! 


41 


GATES    OF    BRASS 

A  SINGLE  taper,  flaming  dim  and  low, 
Played   fitfully   on   relic   altar-gold; 
Thru  windows  wrought  with  miracles  of  old 
Fell  faint  the  saffron  of  the  afterglow. 


Before  the  penance-bench  Sir  Hardistan, 

Scarce  more  than  youth,  of  sturdy  limb  and  fair. 
Knelt  down  as  under  longer  years'  despair 

That  marked  his  brow  with  age  ere  age  began. 

Within  the  shadow  stooped  the  solemn  priest, 
In  patience  with  the  sorrows  of  the  years — 
His  cup  of  life  o'erfilled  of  other's  tears, 

Had  spilled  his  tragedy  as  theirs  increased. 

"Sir  Knight,  I  keep  the  refuge  of  the  poor — 
Here  knees  of  plaintive  misery  are  bent 
When  worldly  wares  and  light  of  life  are  spent. 

Thou'rt  not  of  these,  but  yet  in  strength  secure." 

"Father,  I  wander  thru  the  endless  night, 

And  the  pale  moon  to  me  appears  but  rare. 
I  seek,  the  last,  they  famed  candle-flare 

To  light  my  steps  and  stumbling  steed  aright." 

42 


"What  meanest  thou,  Sir  Knight? — Hast  naught  oi 

home?" 

"Aye,  Father,  home — such  home  as  all  men  seek, 
And  wife  and  child,  and  stables  of  the  sheik, 

And  gold  to  grace  a  triumphry  of  Rome." 

"Grieve  not,  Sir  Knight,  if  erst  thy  jousting  failed." 
"No  conflict  but  a  conquest,  holy  one; 
The  bravest  have  engaged  me  and  are  done 

With  tournaments,  whilst  I  am  victor  hailed." 

"Find'st  thou  no  weal  in  neighbor,  friend  or  kin?" 
"Thy    pardon,    sire — thou    speak'st    in    language 

worn. 
Can  mortal  fellowship  be  bred  of  scorn? 

The  wolf  am  I;  the  whimpering  folds  are  men." 

"Mayhap  thy  alms  are  sown  to  thankless  soil." 

"Alms?      Alms?      Wouldst    fling    thy    beads    to 

craven  oaves? 
My  gift  is  steady  steel,  outlasting  loaves! 

But  haste! — the  serpent  Night  doth  loose  her  coil!" 

"Haste    romps,    Sir    Knight,    without    the    cloister 

gates— 

With  such  as  thou  on  worldly  roads  it  runs, 
In  vain  pursuit  of  far  retreating  suns! 

My  humble  lairn  will  serve  but  him  who  waits. 

43 


"The  Sangreal  lay  not  the  wanton's  way! 

God's  love  for  love;  His  mercy  for  thine  own! 

Turn   back   whence    thou   hast   come — unarmed, 

alone! 
Beyond  the  east  awaits  the  dawn  of  day!" 


MY    TAPER'S    RECOMPENSE 

MY  candle  burned  for  long  to  those  fair  days 
When  chivalry  and  modest  worth  held  true 
The  scale  of  life;  and  then  would  I  pursue 
In  fancy  backward  up  those  older  ways, 
To  peace!     The  modern  fabric  wants  the  grays 

And  love-care  that  our  mother's  sampler  knew; 
The  world  takes  on  a  false,  fantastic  hue, 
And  hearts  and  homes  are  wrought  of  sordid  clays. 

But  here  are  truth  and  sweetness  of  the  old, 
Set  with  the  art  and  splendor  of  the  new, 
Like  strands  of  silver  thread  among  the  gold; 

That  silence-charm,  the  heritage  of  few, 
Frail  beauty  and  the  purity  of  tears — 
All  saved  in  thee  to  pay  my  waiting  years! 


THE    INVENTOR 

A  SAD  man  lived  in  the  years  of  dark 
And  numbered  the  pains  of  dearth. 
He  prayed  of  the  gods  a  sign  and  spark 
To  lift  the  burden  and  light  the  ark 
For  the  sons  of  his  weary  earth. 

He  took  for  his  tithe  the  tangled  thorn 
That  falls  to  our  foretime  dreams — 
The  hate  of  the  loved  and  the  loaner's  scorn. 
For  the  sake  of  the  millions  yet  unborn 
And  the  goal  of  the  right  that  seems. 

His  kinsmen  saw  but  the  waste  of  dower 
And  warned  of  the  wretched  gain. 
The  forge  and  book  and  the  midnight  hour, 
That  knew  the  man  in  the  secret  tower, 
Could  marvel  the  mortal  brain. 

From  a  drop  of  rain  and  a  quoin  of  steel, 
A  coal  and  a  grain  of  sand, 
He  fashioned  a  lamp  for  a  kingdom's  weal, 
And  laid  man's  work  on  the  arc  of  a  wheel 
And  watered  a  wasted  land. 


45 


THE    PEASANT'S    PRAYER 

THE  roan  cow  rests  content  under  the  trees 
That  shade  the  lane's  end.    Nearer,  bumble-bees 
With  golden  thighs  grip  the  sweet  flowers 
Of  the  sun-lighted  bridal-wreath.     No  showers 
Have  laid  the  dry  loam,  and  dust  veils 
The  dragman's  team  as  wearily  it  trails 
The  warping  frame  over  the  ochre  ground 
Sloping  to  the  blue  marsh-edge.    The  main  sound 
A  fitful  creaking  of  the  half-shadowed  mill 
That  rests  from  labor,  like  a  true  bard,  until 
Some  god's  good  wind  comes  on  to  bid  it  move. 
No  song  but  the  faint  cooing  of  a  dove 
Lonely  on  the  barn-ridge,  mourning  a  mate. 

Here,  in  my  tired  heart,  early  and  late, 
Shadows,  dim  lights,  sounds  of  forgotten  years, 
Old  sorrow-songs  from  memory  of  tears. 
I  have  not  known  great  love — the  less  to  grieve — 
Nor  hated  ought  but  to  its  course  must  cleave. 
To  books  of  wisdom,  mirth  and  things  of  beauty 
I  could  not  give  the  hour  forepledged  to  Duty 
Calling  on  busy  hands.     Ill  fares  the  soul! 

Around  my  life  of  labor  scroll  on  scroll 
Of  wonders  I  cannot  read,  music  unheard 
By  my  dull  ears.     How  understand  the  word 

46 


The  night-stars  speak  and  language  of  the  winds? 
Grass  is  pasture;  wheat,  bread.     To  other  minds 
Symbols  of  God — mystery  divinely  sweet. 
To  us — man,  cow  or  bee — but  straw  and  meat. 

Mine   the  gray  toil;  all  fair  illusion  yours. 
O,  grant  me,  yet,  one  dream — one  that  secures 
My  childish  hope  of  comfort  in  the  grave 
And  love  beyond!     This  gone,  what  do  we  peasants 
save? 


47 


THE    POET    VAGRANT 

WERE  I  to  die  this  hour  or  some  near  day — 
Be  stricken  quick  upon  the  way  I've  trod, 
Say  not  'tis  sad  the  youth  has  passed  away 
So  reft  of  fortune  and  so  far  from  God. 

Say  not  in  pity  that  I  might  have  had 
The  gift  and  favor  of  the  rich  and  great — 
But  that  mischosen  insolence  forbade 
My  fellows'  warning  of  a  hapless  fate. 

Grieve  not  that  I  have  spent  my  years  in  dream, 
And  drifted  listless  as  the  vagrant  brook — 
Have  sought  me  substance  in  the  things  that  seem, 
And  left  to  earth  the  semblance  of  a  book. 

What  though  I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head, 
Nor  marble  weight  upon  my  body's  grave? — 
Of  this  I  make  no  moan  when  I  am  dead 
And  you  possess  the  worth  I  failed  to  save. 

So  be  it  I  am  soon  forgot  of  men 
And  laid  in  alien  soil  by  stranger  hands; — 
The  pines  above  my  head  will  mourn  me  then, 
And  waves  intone  my  requiem  on  the  sands. 

48 


Say  rather,  this:     "He  chose  to  make  his  friends 
In  wood  and  field,  with  bird  and  flower  and   tree; 
Began  his  labor  where  our  labor  ends, 
And  saved — the  faith  in  immortality." 


JAPAN    THE    BEAUTIFUL 

THE  ghost  of  grace  through  heathen  tides  and 
times, 

Hath  kept  her  vigil  'neath  thy  trembling  stars! 
Thy  cherry-blossom  cheeks,  in  peace  or  wars, 
Beam  in  rapport  with  all  thy  sweetest  chimes! 

New    states    may    grow    where    fallen    states    have 

been; — 

The  pulse  of  Beauty,  dead,  shall  beat  no  more! 
Thine    not    the    cause    of    wall    and    tower    and 

store; — 
Thy  citadels  are  laid  in  hearts  of  men! 


49 


MY    BIRTHDAY 

FULL  sure  this  day  would  find  me  older, 
The  late  weeks  were  gray  with  fear 
To  feel  at  once  my  life-fire  smoulder 
In  ashes  of  the  year. 

I  heard  the  impatient  mace  of  Duty 
Beat  the  post  of  my  outer  door> 
And  saw  the  ghosts  of  indignant  Beauty 
And  spent  Hours  count  my  store. 

I  thought  to  keep  the  day  unvaunted, 
Sealed  in  tasks — until  forgot — 
Avoid  the  friendly  feast  so  haunted 
Of  Youth  that  now  was  not. 

Then  came  a  perfume  from  the  mountains, 
A  message  heart-warm  from  the  west; 
Singers   with   songs  like  lyric   fountains. 
A  book  of  verse,  a  guest. 

A   great  white    steamer   crossed   the   water, 
Bride-proud  in  the  summer  blue; 
Moving  like  some  Olympian  daughter, 
On  cycles  ever  new. 

50 


And  then  I  woke  new-born  to  living 
And  learned  my  Soul  is  ever  young- 
As  a  life  of  love  and  self-forgiving, 
A  song  forever  sung. 

I  fear  the  waiting  wrath  no  longer, 
I  count  the  measured  years  no  loss; 
I  take  the  road  before  me  stronger 
Shouldering  my  cross. 


51 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    WINDS 

I  FAIN  would  laugh  with  all  the  laughing  world, 
And  let  the  relic  memories  be  furled 
With  banners  of  crusades  and  laid  away 
With  tomes  and  trumpery  of  the  older  day; 
With  crooning  history,  Time's  romance,  be  done — 
Let  ages  die,  and  wake  the  "On  and  on!" 

And  yet  in  dreaming  hours,  despite  my  will, 
Past  friends  and  fading  pictures  linger  still. 
Old  wars  with  all  their  wrongs,   caesars  and  kings 
With  all  their  crimes  and  ancient  clamorings, 
And  troubadours,  and  pirates  of  the  sea — 
Seem  still  to  mock  our  lauded  Liberty. 
Somehow  when  I  would  tempt  the  tuneful  strings 
I  find  them  fraught  with  hymns  of  buried  things — 
I  hear  the  cadence  of  the  awkward  flail, 
And  Indians  moaning  on  the  bison-trail. 

The  clanking  enginery  of  modern  strife 
Profanes  the  obsequies  of  sweeter  life. 
There's  grandeur  in  the  press  of  steam  and  steel, 
But  heart-beats  in  the  throb  of  oaken  keel! 
And  on  the  winds  a  runic  wail  of  doom 
Pursues  the  tattered  sail  and  trembling  boom 
Of  one-time  stately  ships.     The  hulks,  all  mute, 
Swing  off  in  funeral  pomp;  and  in  pursuit 

52 


The  squadron  hounds  of  fretful  Commerce  bay 
Their  greed  of  wealth  and  ruthless  pride   of  prey! 

A  golden  glory  filled  the  sea  and  air 

When  Turner  saw  the  failing  Temeraire! 

No  harmonies  contest  the  sunset  fire, 

The  fondest  fancies  haunt  the  Autumn  pyre; 

So,  when  the  Muses  seek  the  tender  theme, 

They  find  the  treasure  passing  toward  a  dream! 


53 


LOUISIANA 

OUT  of  the  ash  of  Ages 
Damp  with  the  tide  of  Time, 
Over  the   reeking  pages 
Red  with  the  Heathen  Crime — 
Here  hath  the  Forest  Fable 
Fought  with  the  corpse  of  Fear, 
Building  a  barracked  gable 
Learned  of  a  Savage  leer. 

Spite  of  the  mountain  and  torrent, 
Huron  and  hunger  and  bear; 
Praying  in  plagues  abhorrent, 
Minding  of  Midasan  blare — 
Jesuit,  knight  and  trader, 
Crozier  and  steel  and  skin, 
Fool-of-the-Fountain  and  raider, 
Founders  of  Faith  and  Sin — 
Chanted  their  cryptical  Aves 
On  through  the  wilds  .of  the  Years, 
Laying  their  laws  as  lavas 
Hot  with  the  blood  and  the  tears. 

In  mounds  of  a  memory  faded, 
The  Kingdoms  planted  their  feet; 
The  stream  where  the  bittern  waded 
Thronged  of  a  throbbing  fleet, 

54 


Mine  and  Timber  and  Meadow 
Meet  their  debt  to  the  Dead, 
And  over  the  shame  and  the  shadow 
The   Sachem  of  Peace   is  led! 

Hewer  and  digger  and  tinker, 
Hammer  and  hoe  and  shear; 
Leaner  and  lover  and  thinker, 
Poet  and  painter  and  seer — 
Shoveled  the  sand  to  building, 
Tethered  the  river  to  power, 
Pounded  the  rock  to  gilding — 
And  looked  on  Temple  and  Tower  1 


THE    DRAGON    CITY 

IN  this  unchanging  shaft-light  hour  by  hour, 
Pent  in  and  comfortless,  the  city's  power 
Goes  grinding  on  around  me;  and  the  sky, 
A  somber  square  the  empty  winds  go  by, 
Scarce  marks  the  transit  of  the  night  or  day. 
A  million  unfixt  spirits  take  their  way 
Beneath  my  keep,  nor  seem  to  reckon  why 
They  tempt  a  dragon,  follow  far,  and  die! 

I  marvel  I  could  quit  the  peace  of  fields 
For  this,  where  all   our   fervent  sowing  yields 
But  mortal  thorns  to  weave  us  penal  crowns! 
I  have  not  learned  the  tenets  of  the  towns: 
I  seem  disarmed  where  every  man  contends, 
Denying  virtue  and  rejecting  friends! 

Where    I   have   wandered,  on   the   northern   hills, 

A  Presence  full  of  power  and  promise  fills 

Our  hearts  with   common  joy;   and   there  we   learn 

How  comradship  and   simple  trust  will  turn 

The  fear  of  beast  and   enmity  of  men. 

But  what  avails  the  code  I  gathered  then? 

The  God  of  farther  places  here  they  scorn, 

And  flout  the  solemn  faiths  that  /  have  sworn! 

56 


Were  men  but  rude,  like  some  unlettered  breed, 
Then  might  I  stand,  as  one  who  knew  the  creed; 
But  here  are  sinuous  ways  and  sultan  smiles, 
Soft  insolence,  diplomacies  and  wiles. 
These  subtler  crafts  plain  men  can  never  know; 
And  fall  as  falls  the  unresisting  snow! 

From  this  most  pitiless  of  human  mills 

I  wonder  I  am  not  among  the  hills, 

Whose  faithful  benediction  followed  me! 

And  I  am  pained  of  infidelity 

At  parting  from  the  pines  and  golden  sands 

And  old-time  friends — the  warm  and  rugged  hands 

Of  long-true  friends!     I  wonder  I  should  roam 

This  way!     My  heart  is  there — and  there  is  home! 


57 


A     SWALLOW     ON     A     TELEGRAPH     WIRE 

BATHED  in  red  sun  and  gladdened  by  the  wind 
A  swallow  sat  upon  a  span  of  wire. 
He  chirped  the  hours  away  with  idle  mind 
And  preened  the  feathers  of  his  staid  attire. 

The  news  of  all  the  world  ran   through  his  feet — 
The  word  of  birth  and  sound  of  wedding-bells; 
The  cry  of  pain  and  laughter  of  the  street, 
Earth's  sorrow  and  the  sin  that  life  compels. 

Whether  the  message  were  of  ill  or  good, 
A  moment's  joy  or  grieving  bitter-long; 
Of  blatant  clamouring  or  solitude — 
The  swallow  shot  to  earth  the  one  glad  song. 

So  might  I  share  the  swallow's  faithful  heart, 
And  know  the  shadow  and  the  light  of  life — 
I'd  go  on  singing  through  the  busy  mart, 
And  find  a  symphony  in  mortal  strife. 


58 


IN    MICHIGAN 

SLOW-YIELDING  Nymphs 
Evade  unpandered  Satyrs  here, 

And  sands  unconquered  laugh  at  man's  invention 
Bright  clouds  drive  darker  shadows, 
And  the  bay-breeze  bears  heavy  odors — 
Odor-offerings  of  ragged  pine 
And  spruce. 

The  white-birch  single  on  the  hillside, 
The  hemlock,  and  I 
Are  friends 
In  Michigan. 

Nature's  fingers 

Seem  to  play  upon  my  strings 

In  minor  harmonies  up  here — 

Where  shells  of  convents  shelter 

Echoes  only, 

And  the  last  Indian  has  laid 

His   flints   and   legends 

On  the  grave-mound  of  the  older  time 

In  Michigan. 


59 


THE    SANDPIPER 

1T)RIME  indignity  of  solitude — 

•*•       To  smile!     But  smiles  intrude 

When   thou,   so   tipsy  bi-ped, 

Teetering  on  twine-legs  and  toes  of  thread 

Through  .fcke-  thin  surf-lace, 

Cry  thy  very  name  and  place 

In  uncompanioned  fear — alarmed 

Of  man,  of  me,  unarmed 

With  any  weapon  worse 

Than  irony  or  any  curse 

But  Titan-laughter.     Even  thy  grace 

Would  scarce  invite  my  greed,  , 

So  much  as  win  my  sympathy — 

As  one  with  thee! 

Scant  wonder  that  thy  hammer-head 

Cannot  look  up — with  such  a  bodkin  tail 

And  crop  of  indescribable  wet  feed! 

Silence  would  avail 

More  than  thy  frantic  piping,  much — 

With  that  quaint  running-gear  and  such 

An  insufficient  wing  to  clutch 

The  air  that  lends  the  sea-gull  speed. 

Scarcely  risen  from  your  tracks  before 

You   falter  and   dip   down, 

Like  a  vellum  toy 

Cast  on  the  wind  by  a  coolie  boy, 

60 


Or  like  some  wing-trousered  clown 
Ascending  gloriously  to  the  floor 
Whence  he  but  started — 
And  returned   ere   he   departed. 

But  the  Maker,  fashioning  the  eagle, 

Fashioned  thee,  dear  little  wader, 

To  the  perfect  pattern  of  His  hand! 

Perfect  in  thy  way,  as  regal 

As  a  king-seal,  and  man's  persuader 

Of  his  own  futility  in  slipping  sand! 

The  Carpenter  of  thy  splint  frame 

And  that  unreasoning  child-cry 

Matched  thy  tenderness  in  every  poet's  eye — 

To  guard  thy  innocence  and  praise  thy  name. 


»+*    ********    +? 


61 


THE    WAR    GARDENS 

IN  the  North's  brief  recessional  of  snows 
These  long,  green  garden-rows, 
Shot  with   red-in-shadow  and  occasional 
Mottlings  of  yellow — leaves  that  fall 
In  prophecy  of  autumn  and  the  frost — 
These  quiet  gardens,  flourishing  a  day,  are  host 
To  armies  of  democracy.    And  those  drab  ranks 
Are  touched  of  red  likewise,  and  yellow  death  flanks 
Their  columns — as  with  the  blight  of  leaves 
Anticipating    higher    tasks,    or    the    slow    decay    of 

sheaves 

Ungarnered    and    regretful    of    the    thresher's    negli- 
gence. 

But  for  these  loyal  acres  and  plaid  hills  of  Provi- 
dence, 

And  the  strong  lads,  singing  of  love,  to  cultivate — 
Surely  the  eager  purposes  must  wait 
And  Winds  convene,  distraught  of  dumb 
Casualties,  to  wither  what  of  earth 
Held  tardy  promise  and  a  pledge  of  worth 
For  planting.     Then  were  the  loud  year  come 
Lean  to  unending  winter  and  the  grief 
Of  yon  untimely-yellowed  leaf. 


62 


TO   A    SEA-GULL 

SEEING  you,  through  the  pleasant  June, 
Fixed  on  a  shore-rock,  like  an  iyory  thing, 
Or  some,  more  animate,  buffoon 
Changing  foot  with  foot's  locality 
To  keep  place  in  the  noon — 
Loth  to  move 
And  unconcerned  to  see 

Even  thy  perfect  image  in  the  pale-green  cove: 
One  would  scarce  surmise 
What  winds  were  in  your  wing 
Waiting  a  larger  enterprise. 

How  will  the  indifference  depart, 

And  what  mad  pranks 

From  the  nursery  of  thy  brave  heart, 

Come  to  the  fore — 

When  storms  bend  down  to  sweep 

The  sea-floor, 

And  stir  the  dead  that  sleep 

In  the  green  weeds  under  the  jetsam  planks! 

It  is  man's  lamenting  wonder 

How  that  the  bellowing  thunder 

And  wild  lightning  and  slant  rain 

Make  you  to  laugh,  tho'  with  a  note  of  pain; 

And  cry,  mockingly,  with  glad  laughter. 


63 


Is  it  that  your  care  foretells  a  peace  hereafter  i 

t.  4 

Or  that  tli^  natural  hour  hatfi  come  at  length — 

Against  long  waiting 

Or  idle  incident  of  mating — 

%1  Irfctf^ 

With  new  tasks  matched  to  feky  great  strength? 

But  yesterday 

One  of  tfty  kinsmen  lay 

Quiet  in  my  trembling  hand. 

Blinded  by  death,  it  was,  and  the  wet  sand. 

He  seemed  not  less  than  tily  own  image, 

In  the  shore-surf;  and  not  once  ill  at  ease 

Had  this  white  body  been,  nor  worse  for  damage 

Nor  purturbed  by  struggle  with  calamities. 

Thou,  bird  of  more  than  grace  and  beauty — 

Sleek  house-ward  of  the  rooms  of  bight  and  bay; 

Friend  of  man  and  sexton  in  thy  casual  duty — 

Take  me  to  brotherhood  this  day! 

My  morning  and  the  warm  sun  have  stood  me  long, 

And  I  am  weary  of  the  rest 

And  the  old  monotony  of  mating-song; 

And  I  am  tired  of  my  own  nest 

And  my  own  image  in  the  still  pools  of  the  west. 

Teach  me  thy  fearlessness  of  thunder 

And  the  wind  and  the  red  rain  that  is — 

Over  the  nations!     Failing  this— 

Teach  me,  O  bird-god,  faith  and  calm  wonder! 


64 

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